


false lights

by too_much_in_the_sun



Category: Maximum Ride - James Patterson
Genre: M/M, Mental Health Issues, Philosophical Bullshit, Timestream Shenanigans, also a lil gay, i think that about covers it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-26
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2018-03-09 03:58:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3235451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/too_much_in_the_sun/pseuds/too_much_in_the_sun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Timestream shenanigans, and how Jeb Batchelder began to atone for his crimes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	false lights

_You will pay for what you've done._

* * *

But there's not enough blood in his veins to repay for every atrocity. There's no way he can repent for his sins, not before his death, not before the world ends. There's just too much.

The pistol shakes in his hand, and Jeb Batchelder wonders why he is not afraid.

* * *

_Only you can set things right._

* * *

The last of his friends has been dead for -- how many years? Were they ever really friends, or only colleagues, men thrown together by necessity? Not that it would change anything. But he has to wonder.

There's a blurry veil over his memories now -- his past has been replaced, erased, by something _else_ , and it's hard to see the things he actually lived -- but this part he remembers; his old friend in a hospital bed, his face gaunt and pale, his eyes blazing with anger.

"I have to give you a message," he had said -- his voice steady, and -- and even then, there was that almost-spiritual sense of _purpose_ radiating from him like the heat of a forest fire --

"I have to give you a message. I don't have much time, so _listen_ ," and his hand was cold where the thin fingers wrapped around Jeb's wrist.

(There is so little warmth in the world these days.)

"All right," he had said, because _time_ had been so much more plentiful then, and he had _time_ to give to his friend even to the last, "I'm listening."

"I suppose you'll think me mad," he said calmly. "Perhaps you already do. But this is a dying world, so it doesn't matter whether you do or don't." His fingers tightened on Jeb's wrist. " _Listen_ to me. I -- I don't know if you'll understand now, but you will. _You can still fix this._ "

"Fix _what_?" he said, his other hand tight on the rail of the bed.

"You'll know." And he looked impossibly _sad_. "I won't be there to help you, but you'll know."

"Don't say that," Jeb said, the words sounding false even as he spoke. "Just -- let me call someone, we'll get you started on some better pain medication --"

" _No._ " And _t_ _here_ was the Roland ter Borcht he had known; his anger, his determination. "You'll listen."

"All right," he said. "I'll listen."

The flicker of a smile on his thin face. "Yes, you will. You always do. Now, you'll need some of my papers, and my briefcase is locked..."

And they had talked, and he had watched his friend fading while a certainty grew in his heart that he had finally seen the moment that Roland lost the last of himself to that black and hungry madness that coiled in his head. And he had written down what Roland told him, if only to placate him, in the hope that he would _stop talking_ , would -- would stop looking at Jeb like that, with something between sorrow and affection.

"There. That's the last of it." The hint of another smile. "Of course in the end it all comes back to blood. It always does with you. I think you'll be able to proceed from there on your own."

"All right, I've listened," Jeb said, and made to get up. "Now I'll just go get the nurse --"

" _No._ " His hand clamped down tighter on Jeb's wrist. "You haven't been listening at all."

"Yes, I have," and there had been a sudden acid rise of fear in his throat, the realization that this was the last person in the world he could call a friend, "I _have_ been listening, what more do you want?"

"Well," he said, "I'd like for you to sit for a little longer and hear what I have to say. There are - a couple of requests I'd like to make."

" _Fine._ "

He let go of Jeb's hand and watched as Jeb sat back in the plastic chair. "It's been such a long time," he said. "You can't imagine how long it's been. I've worked so hard for this. Spent half my career in and out of libraries, chasing shadows..." He sighed. "I'm asking you to go through with this, no matter the cost. I suppose it makes me a coward, that I won't -- be there to help. But you will have to carry this weight on your own."

The fluorescent lights buzzed at the edge of hearing, and outside he heard a footstep on the tile. There was so much _silence_ in the world lately.

"That's the first thing." He folded his hands on top of the sheet, faded from many washings. "The second is this. You have done me so many favors, and this is the last one -- I ask you for a death." He paused. "My own, this time. There's -- no way I can tell you _why_ , not now, you might understand once you've read my papers, but." He looked up and caught Jeb's eyes.

"I've had a long time to think this over," he said. "This is the best death I can choose." He saw the hesitance as Jeb prepared to go for the door and laughed. "Oh, don't bother. You might stop this one, but I'm afraid this is one situation you can't manipulate. You can give me this, or I'll find another way to do it. This is, I'm afraid, the best option for both of us. I'm so sorry to put you on the spot, Jeb," he said.

And it was easy, as it had always been easy, to give in. "All right."

"You won't have to do much," he said quietly. "I don't have too long after this anyway, but I'd like to be comfortable for the last little while. You'll have to bring me the things, but all I'd like you to do is sit with me. Can you do that?"

"I can."

* * *

_Of course in the end it all comes back to blood._

* * *

"What's left?" he says. "What more have I to give?"

 _You have lost so much, Jeb Batchelder_ , _but there is always more to lose._ And there's no cruelty in that voice; if anything there's a disinterested kind of gentleness.

"A life for a life," he says, and his voice shakes, even though it's -- it's just what Roland said he would need to say, when he came this far, when he stood where he's standing. ( _How did he know_?)

There's a laugh that shakes the nothing all around him. _One life, for a universe of possibility. You have sacrificed so many on the altar of your ego. Who will you sacrifice next_?

He is silent -- the notes don't say what exactly he'll need to say next, there's just a scrawled _Good luck_ and his friend's sloppy signature below -- and the voice continues, trying to goad him into, into _something_ \--

 _You sacrificed your daughter's childhood. You took your son's life from him. You let your friends die for nothing. And now you stand before me at the end of the world, and you propose a_ _sacrifice_ _? You know nothing of sacrifice._

And the words are suddenly there on his tongue, and he can almost feel a spectral hand in his -- all his ghosts have followed him here, but they're no longer _angry_ with him and it's strange to not have that haunting him --

"I would sacrifice myself," he says.

 _Well, now_. Nothing changes, he sees no movement, but he has the sense that all the attention of something great and ancient has focused on him, a needle-point on his heart. _You have not offered this before. You have stood here before me, but you have never offered your own heart._

"I - I must not have known what I know now," he says, and the words feel both true and false as they leave his lips. The air in this place is thick with potential, and with every word he speaks sparks sizzle over his exposed skin, dancing over the knuckles. "I would make amends for what I've done. If I can."

_There is always the possibility of forgiveness. But you must offer up before you can receive. Are you sure this is your choice?_

"I'm not sure exactly what it means," he admits. "Can I ask that?"

 _You are more clever than you think you are. Yes. You may ask_.

His mouth is dry, and he swallows around a lump in his throat. "Then I ask what exactly this will mean."

 _It will hurt you. There will be a great deal of pain._ _The sacrifice is meaningless without suffering._

He thinks of the pain in Roland's eyes. Of all the others he's watched die. Of how _few_ he gave the mercy of death to. Of how cruel a man he has been.

"I'm not afraid of pain," he says.

_Very well. You will not be the only one who dies._

"How --" He stops and reconsiders. "I'm offering -- I'm offering to sacrifice _myself_. No one else needs to suffer for what I've done. Not now."

_You will be the only one who dies. You stand at the center of many possible worlds. There are as many versions of you as there are stars in the sky, and you stand here in place of all of them. Your friend understood this, how you are one man and many at once._

"And I'm -- if I do this, all of us die? All of me?" It's hard to wrap his mind around the idea, but he is standing in chaos space at the moment, talking to something that may or may not be a god. The realm of possibility has changed its dimensions since he last considered it.

_Yes. And no._

"How does that work?"

_All that you are will be destroyed. But out of the remains I will allow one of you to survive. On him will fall the burden you now bear, to make right your wrongs._

"Will that -- will that be me?"

_No._

He sighs with relief. "Good. I'm -- I'm tired. What do I need to do?"

_The easiest thing -- finish what you began. And then -- then you may rest._

_"_ I'll do it," he says, and things break apart.

It's -- an endless scattering of deaths, and he sees them all happening to him at once, _feels_ them all happening to him at once --

It's accident or illness, it's natural disaster, it's murder, it's murder, it's murder, it's all those he has wronged getting their revenge, and again and again he finds that it's his own hand giving the killing blow, his hand that wields the razor, his hand that pulls the trigger, over and over, suicides quick and suicides protracted --

And in the end it's a solid, human hand in his, it's not being alone despite all that he's done, it's the warmth of blood, it's forgiveness at last, it's turning aside the apocalypse _by himself_ \--

It's something he had almost forgotten; the love of a friend, as he comes to the end.

* * *

_I'll make_

_All that I believe_

_I'll set myself free --_

_\-- It's an artificial nocturne,_

_An outsider's escape for a broken heart._

**Author's Note:**

> Lyrics at the end are from "[Artificial Nocturne](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nmYRRcaQLno)", Metric.


End file.
